


as long as you need it

by plaisirparkway



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, I mean if domesticity is your THING strap in, extremely domestic Adam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 06:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30051282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaisirparkway/pseuds/plaisirparkway
Summary: She does a few—it becomes meditative after a while.Snick, unspool, sigh.The next time she drops the scissors, he picks them up.Snip.There’s something about the way he does it, a little more decisive._______Or: Adam helps Serena with her hair.
Relationships: Detective/Adam du Mortain, Female Detective/Adam du Mortain
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	as long as you need it

**Author's Note:**

> (this has been sitting over on tumblr for some time, but it's quite special to me and I would like to save it here.)
> 
> Just a superduper quick thing about braids if you don’t know! There are a million ways to do them, but Serena has woven hair into her own, at some length and then they have been sealed at the bottom, which is why they have to be cut. Getting them in is a long process and taking them out is not as long but it is a teeny bit of a chore, and that’s what’s happening here. (obvi this would be deep romance.)
> 
> Please take my self-indulgent lil ficlet that has made me…surprisingly emotional!

He barely looks up from his book when she tosses a cushion on the floor, and her supplies down next to it: a leftover grocery bag and rattail comb. Scissors. That bottle of the fancy oil. The smell is artificial: sweet and citrusy. Like a bit of bottled sunshine. 

Adam still doesn’t look up when she turns the TV on and screws around until she lands on a movie she’s seen before. The only time he even acknowledges her nearness is when she sits with her back to the couch and purposefully jostles his knee with her shoulder. He pokes her gently with a toe. 

_I’m here._

_I know._

The scissors slide through the end of the braid with a satisfying _snick_ , and she drops the end into the plastic bag. Her thumbnail finds the vulnerable opening in the hair with practiced ease. Her fingertips skate up the hair, long enough to reach her waist, and when she’s unraveled it down to the root, she gives a little sigh. 

She does a few—it becomes meditative after a while. _Snick, unspool, sigh_. The next time she drops the scissors, he picks them up.

_Snip_. 

There’s something about the way he does it, a little more decisive. 

He only hums and clears his throat when she looks at him askance, because the braid is long enough for her to turn her head, to watch the very end of it twitch against his thigh. His big fingers are shockingly deft as they part the hair that had been so painstakingly woven in.

Those green eyes slide away from hers, down to the task at hand. “I’ve always been very good with braids.”

She can picture it. His fingers weaving through golden strands so unlike her own. Certainly his hands prove him right: they don’t feel like the hands of someone new at it. His fingers slide up (faster than hers, which seems unfair, because it’s not like it hurts or anything) until he reaches the end and does away with the braid hair. 

His fingers press against her scalp, a massage in miniature. Immediately, he picks up another and the scissors. 

“Don’t cut too high,” she cautions. Or he’ll cut into her hair. 

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking. “I was paying attention.” 

They go on like that, passing the scissors back and forth. He doesn’t seem to mind that there are dozens that need to be undone. Where she is concerned, he never seems to mind. Instead, he grabs them up, claiming a handful. A den of silky black snakes quelled in his fist.

It goes much more quickly than usual; many hands, light work. When they’re finished, she still doesn’t move, even though her back is protesting just a little. But Adam is fingering her newly freed curls, even though he’s picked up his book with his other hand, has the hardback open in his lap. 

Serena leans until she can press her head to his knee, hard. A nudge. An insistence. His fingers move over the surface of her hair until he finds the curve of an ear. Gentle enough that it doesn’t even tickle, he strokes until he finds the place where her second set of piercings closed up. 

_You’re here._

_I am._


End file.
